


Strong as Death

by Karla1209



Series: Wingbeats [2]
Category: Winnetou - Karl May
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Supernatural Elements, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-14 01:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18042656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karla1209/pseuds/Karla1209
Summary: Winnetou and Old Shatterhand are surprised by the beginning of winter in the Rocky Mountains. On their way back home, Old Shatterhand wants to cross a frozen lake...





	Strong as Death

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, esteven, for translating!

**Strong as Death**

  


_Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it_

_(Song of Solomon, 8, 6-7 King James Bible)_

 

 

“Let us risk it, my brother, I beg of you. I can see clearly how much this is taking its toll on you. We will not last much longer without shelter. We have to cross the lake.”

Winnetou and Old Shatterhand had guided their horses to the shores of a frozen lake. They cast their eyes across its wide white surface. With fingers stiff from the cold, Winnetou pushed the blanket from his brow. He had put it across his head and shoulders to give a modicum of shelter against the stress of the weather. Some strands of his dark hair became visible and almost instantly glittering snowflakes attached themselves to it. “No, Sharlih. The lake is shallow and is traversed by several brooks. It has only been a few days since winter arrived in these mountains. There is still the real danger the ice will not hold. We will ride around it.”

His white companion and blood brother wiped his hand across his face impatiently. It seemed like hours from when he had felt warm; the cold had seeped into each fibre of his body, into each sliver of his bones. How must it feel for his companion so used to the Southern heat? They were equipped for travel in the mountains at this time of year but had not reckoned on this severe winter weather. They had planned to be home again from their renewed mediation between the Shoshones and the Crows before the weather turned.

But then Iltschi’s leg had taken a turn for the worse. The black horse had halted, and they had had to decide: leave the stallion with the Shoshones and take a different horse or wait together until the good animal had recovered from the inflammation. Obviously, a temporary trade-in would have been more sensible but when the Shoshone chieftain had proposed this, Old Shatterhand had felt the pain that had shot through his blood brother’s soul like an arrow through smooth Wood.

While listening to the suggestions, Winnetou had schooled his features before he turned to the head of the Snakes and to his white friend. “Wagare-Tey speaks the truth. We must not stay. Winnetou will fetch his horse come next spring. What is Sharlih’s opinion? ” The chieftain’s eyes had pleaded silently and Old Shatterhand had known without a doubt that it would break his friend’s heart if they had to leave his treasured black horse behind.

They stayed until the animal had recovered enough so that it was to be expected to make the journey home. Nevertheless, they had the black on long reins while Winnetou rode a Shoshone horse to protect Iltschi, just to be on the safe side.

Only a few days after, the delay had come back to haunt them. They had not yet traversed the Rocky Mountains when the first winter storms descended upon the mountains and had turned the world into one endless white desert where game was sparse and the horses hardly found anything to feed on. The riders’ warm but soon drenched and thus less than adequate clothes proved no guard against the icy temperatures.

Both men were freezing pitifully, but either of them tried not to show it for the sake of the other. It had not gone unnoticed by Old Shatterhand that Winnetou had started to cough since the previous noon. He was certain that his friend had caught a cold. How easy it would be for such an otherwise negligible cold to turn into an infection of the lungs if they continued on through this weather?

Under no circumstances would the hunter endanger the health of his dear blood brother, who had become more to him than his closest and truest friend ever since they had freed Hiller and Carpio had died. It had been in the snowy mountains that they had found each other as Carpio’s loyal soul had passed on. Old Shatterhand knew he would be unable to bear it if he lost his companion up here too. It was of the utmost importance to him that they needed shelter, and soon.

After three nights and two and a half days of freezing and worrying, luck seemed to be with them this afternoon because as soon as they had left behind the stormy mesa and continued towards a small valley downhill which might be able to provide some shelter against the strongest gale forces, the Apache had halted his horse. “Winnetou knows this path. It is the old bed of a small stream that leads to one of the large lake the Shoshones call ‘Green Water’. Its shores are rocky but there are stretches of grass in between where the horses might be able to find food. It stretches from West to East. We shall arrive at its eastern shore. On the western side, almost exactly in its middle is a cavern deeply carved into the rock. It will provide shelter enough for us and for our animals. We will be safe enough to wait out the worst of the storms.”

The valley was long and narrow, strewn with spiked shivers covered by snow and thus difficult to navigate, especially since Winnetou took extreme care that Iltschi whose leg had not quite recovered would not set a hoof wrong. Hour after hour had passed without them arriving at the lake. Without the help of a clear sky Old Shatterhand had had to resort to his old fob watch. They had only one hour of daylight left at the most. Finally the walls of the ravine had given way to the view of a large white open space that covered the ‘Green Water’.

Old Shatterhand had dismounted from Hatatitla and carefully walked a few steps forward to find out if the surface was solid and frozen enough. At least near the shore this had been the case and the ice had carried his weight. Therefore he had suggested it again to his friend to risk crossing because that could still be done before nightfall while rounding the lake would mean another night out in the open because the shores were narrow and studded with sharp pebbles invisible under their blanket of snow.

Winnetou coughed again, and Old Shatterhand was adamant that he would risk crossing even if his friend advised against it. Usually he valued Winnetou’s caution above all, but tonight the vision of being able to help his friend lie down between warm blankets and in a dry cave and close to the fire beckoned, so he was determined to get his way. The ice would carry them. The good Lord would keep them safe in His hands and Winnetou would be able to brew himself one of his bitter teas and rest until he was well again.

“You have caught a cold, Winnetou. Another night in the open could easily aggravate your condition. We have to cross. I shall go first and as soon as I have found a secure path, you can cross over on Wagare-Tey’s pinto. Then I will return to fetch Iltschi and Hatatitla. They are clever and prudent and will follow me at a distance when I call to them.”

Again, Winnetou shook his head. “Sharlih, you will be risking too much. Winnetou will be fine with another night in the open until morning. It is really nothing, just a mild cough.”

“Which can easily turn into an inflammation of the lungs.” Old Shatterhand retorted. “My brother, I beg of you to trust me. I shall be very careful. Should the ice turn treacherous, I shall retrace my steps immediately.”

The Apache sighed and dismounted. He took his blood brother’s guns. Before Shatterhand started on his dangerous trip, Winnetou grabbed him by the arm. Their gazes met for the longest time and Winnetou’s dark eyes were filled with worry when he begged his friend. “Sharlih, give me your word that you will retrace your steps in case you notice the slightest sign of danger. Promise me.”

“I promise,” the white hunter affirmed. He cupped Winnetou’s cold cheek gently in his equally cold hand and feathered an infinitely tender kiss on lips pale from the icy temperatures. “I shall be cautious, and I shall find a path for us.”

Then he turned towards the open space. Cautiously he set one foot in front of the other. He paused after each step to listen closely for each cracking of ice, to look out for each treacherous dark spot, each rising plant before he continued on his way.

Proceeding like this, Old Shatterhand had already negotiated more than three quarters of the lake. The shore on the other side and the dark entrance to the cavern they hoped to reach seemed within grasp. But then a very loud cracking of the icy surface stopped Old Shatterhand in his tracks. He instantly knew that this sound might herald imminent death because it could not be compared to the soft crunch of his previous steps. On the contrary, it sounded much like a profound bursting and breaking the extent and position of which he could not make out. He knew he had promised Winnetou to turn around as soon as he recognized danger, but since the path in front of him was shorter by far than the path behind him, he decided to forge ahead.

Without looking back, and throwing caution to the wind, he boldly jumped towards the shore. There, it seemed to be within his grasp. Only ninety, seventy, sixty yards when a dark crack across his path opened in the snow-covered surface at his feet, greenish water gushing from it. Old Shatterhand desperately tried to stop his forward motion, tried to change his direction. But the momentum of his forward motion made it impossible to pull back. His foot hit a void and within an instant sank into the icy waters that gaped like a bubbling cauldron. As much as he struggled, as much as his arms tried to find support, it was of no avail. His body plunged into the water, into its piercing depth.

 

+++

 

From the other side Winnetou had to watch helplessly as his blood brother disappeared completely under the surface of the lake for a few moments. Then head, chest and arms emerged again. Briefly his friend flailed around hectically, but then tried to hold onto the breaking ice with calm movements trying to pull himself out carefully. It seemed impossible. Again and again he plunged back into the water. It closed above his head and obviously sapped more and more his strength. Winnetou asked himself, if only for a second, why his blood brother did not try to break a path towards the shore and through the ice. With his friend being naturally prudent, there must be good reasons not to make that attempt.

While those thoughts kept running through the chieftain’s mind, he had already thrown aside his blanket, had laid down their rifles and was already moving towards his blood brother. Everything within him seemed to cry out to hurry up, to run, not lose any time, but the ingrained, iron discipline of a warrior let Winnetou keep the necessary cool. It helped nobody if he also broke through the ice. But with each step he took it became clearer to him that he would not make it at this speed in time. If he did not make haste to reach Sharlih, a span of time would have passed which the palefaces called ten minutes. What if by then his dear blood brother was already so weakened by the cold that he drowned before Winnetou reached him?

Fear paralysed the Apache’s heart, wanted to bind his foot to the treacherous ground and at the same time urged his legs to run faster. But the Apache knew that he could do neither. To give voice to his mounting panic, he started shouting his brother’s name. “Sharlih, hang on. I am coming. Sharlih, do not let go. Sharlih…Sharlih…Sharlih…”

 

+++

 

Just barely Old Shatterhand managed not to get lost under the surface of the dark lake when his quickly soaked and heavy clothes wanted to pull him into the deep. The freezing water was like a thousand needles on his body, his lungs started burning and he was almost certain never to see daylight again when he finally succeeded in raising head, shoulders and arms out of the water again.

He trod water as best he could in his heavy boots, but the chill pulled at him. He felt with each passing second that he would be unable to keep fighting. In desperation he tried to hold onto the rim of the ice, tried to keep his wits about him, tried to pull himself up, but floe after floe broke off, its cultrate edges cutting into his hands to deny him a firm hold.

At the same time, the freezing water sapped all warmth from his limbs, turning them insensitive and stiff. Briefly he considered breaking a path towards the shore, but it was still too far away, and should the ice sheet become thicker nearer the rim, then all his efforts might easily be in vain. He might get caught in a situation similar to the one he was already in. No, it was better to use his remaining strength to try and get back onto the surface. Only there he might be able to find safety.

With each passing minute it became more difficult for him to keep his mind clear. Pure survival instincts pushed him to continue treading water, keep his head above the water, urged him to find leverage somewhere, anywhere. Nevertheless the dark green waters surrounding him seemed more alluring to him with each passing moment. It would be so easy to stop moving.

Just as that thought wanted to tempt his body into giving up, he caught a shout that returned him to reality at once. “Sharlih, hang on. I am coming. Sharlih, do not let go. Sharlih…Sharlih…Sharlih…”

No! Winnetou! No! It must not be.

His friend’s voice was so close that he must definitely be on the ice. What if he, too, broke through? What if something happened to Winnetou only because Old Shatterhand had refused to listen to his prudent companion?

Old Shatterhand wanted to call out “No, stay away, turn back,” but he only managed a croak. He had to force Winnetou to turn back. Only how?

For an instant Old Shatterhand’s sluggish mind had made him forget to tread water. Slowly he slipped into the dark floods with the cold beckoning him, promising to engulf him. And suddenly he knew exactly what he had to do. He simply had to stop fighting because as soon as he sank into the water, his dear blood brother no longer had reason to court danger.

In the recesses of his clouded mind Old Shatterhand knew with certainty that this decision meant certain death for him, but what of his own life as long as Winnetou was safe? Old Shatterhand would rather die here than put his friend in danger.

“My life is your life,” the oath he had taken when they became blood brothers ghosted through his mind. Slowly his fingers let go the ice to which he had clung until now.

 

+++

 

Only an arm’s length still separated Winnetou from his blood brother, and even without being able to see his beloved’s features or hear his words, the Apache suddenly knew that Sharlih had given in. Darkness like black smoke covered the chieftain’s soul, robbed him of his breath and let him shortly stop in his tracks before he threw himself down into the snow and crawled forward as fast as he could without caring for his own safety. It took a while for him to realize that he shouted “Sharlih! No! I beg you! Sharlih…” over and over.

 

+++

 

The white hunter’s last image before he sank into the freezing cold water was of Winnetou’s slim form that had come to a halt on the ice. He had succeeded; the friend had stopped and would now return to safety because he surely realized that there was no more to be done. Comforted by this thought and with no strength left from the cold, Old Shatterhand let go of life. He closed his eyes in the knowledge that he would see Paradise when he woke again.

Blackness covered his senses, embraced him, turned him weightless and carried him from the darkness of the dank grave he had chosen for himself. The cold disappeared, the burning sensation in his lungs disappeared, the cutting pain in his palms disappeared. Any discomfort he might have felt lost its meaning. Everything felt numb, strange and unreal.

‘Is this death?’ was the last question in Old Shatterhand’s mind. Then he descended into nothingness.

When he awoke, white light blinded him so that he closed his eyelids again immediately. For a split second he thought himself ascended to the heavens, but then he felt the heat and the pain that coursed through his body. Had it not been said that in Paradise any pain should have vanished? Maybe he was not dead? Or worse, had the Lord considered his voluntary ending of life as a sin and thrown him into purgatory?

Again, Old Shatterhand tried to open his eyes. Never in life had he behaved cowardly, he would not start with it now. Wherever he was, he had to be certain. Slowly, ever so slowly he got used to the light and finally realized that he was not alone.

»Phew! Aguan inta-hinta!« [1], - A voice he could not quite place for now brought back memories from many years ago. His mind still grappled with it when out of the blinding light a form became visible. It approached him. “You have finally woken up.” This was a voice he knew, but he was certain not to have heard it for a long time. But to whom did it belong?

Slightly wary, Old Shatterhand tried to straighten so as to see better. He barely managed it and instantly he recalled the situation where he had once heard those words having struggled to sit up. The old Indée, who was now Winnetou’s housekeeper, and Nscho-Tschi had said them in the pueblo, way back when he had finally awoken after weeks of having been at death’s doorstep. It had been after his then foe and now blood brother had attacked him with a knife.

“Old Shatterhand must lie down again.” When the apparition leaned over him, he truly recognized the delicate and ravishingly beautiful features of Winnetou’s sister.

"Nscho-tschi?" Old Shatterhand‘s mouth formed these words, even before his senses acknowledged the impossibility of what he thought he saw. The young Apache woman had died many years ago, murdered by Santer, buried at the Nugget-tsil.

But was it really that impossible? Or was it simply because he had died too and Nscho-Tschi appeared to him like an angel in some sort of hereafter? Maybe she was the messenger sent from transcendent spheres bid to tend to him like she had done and then take him by the hand to lead him to the higher realms waiting for him. What a solace!

Whispering, so as not to chase off the beautiful Indée’s apparition, he asked “Where am I?”

“Safe”, she replied vaguely.

Briefly comforted by this prospect, Shatterhand made to lie down again, but then he noticed that Nscho-Tschi’s face did not show the concerned gentleness he had expected to see, and which had been directed at him at the time. Instead her dark eyes sparkled; her soft features seemed hard and shuttered. Obviously she was angry.

Discarding the idea of closing his eyes again, he looked around to find the possible reason for her displeasure. Strangely, there was only darkness beyond the bright light in which he recognized only Winnetou’s sister.

“Who angered Nscho-tschi?” He put his confusion into words.

“Old Shatterhand!” came the reply he had not expected at all. His surprise must have been written all over his face, but before he was able to ask ‘why’, the Apache woman continued. “What does Old Shatterhand think he is doing here?”

“Well”, he stuttered. “I don’t know, to be honest. I had hoped you would be able to explain.”

“What was the last thing Winnetou’s blood brother remembers?” She answered his question with a question.

“I fell into the water when I tried to cross a frozen lake. I was unable to get out again. Winnetou advanced across the breaking ice surface. I had to stop him. I had to protect him. That was when I let go…” the white hunter admitted.

“You speak the truth”, Nscho-Tschi nodded, satisfied, but still, her beautiful face showed neither warmth nor friendliness. “But instead of protecting my brother, Old Shatterhand betrayed him!”

“I should have betrayed Winnetou? Never!” Deeply shocked, Shatterhand only stared at her.

“Does Old Shatterhand remember the words Klekih-petra spoke to him before he died, the promise he had given to a dying man?” she continued to question, seemingly changing the subject.

“Yes, certainly, yes”, Shatterhand acknowledged. “He asked me to continue his work, to remain faithful to Winnetou. I promised him.”

Again a nod.

„And does Old Shatterhand recall what my brother had asked of him at the Nugget-tsil?

“We talked about all sorts of subjects after Santer…” Old Shatterhand stopped. ‘After Santer had shot you?’ Was he permitted to put it into such blunt words? Was he permitted to tell an apparition that it was an apparition? On the other hand, wasn’t he one himself? “…after Santer had made his assault on you” he put his thoughts into less plain words.

“Winnetou asked you to be father and sister to him, to be his family,” Nscho-Tschi stated deliberately and matter-of-fact.

It slowly dawned on Old Shatterhand what the young woman was driving at. Had he kept his promise? Had he always been Winnetou’s friend, support, family substitute? Hardly likely, at least not during all those years when he had left his blood brother for adventures in different parts of the world.

“Well?” Nscho-Tschi asked impatiently.

“I think I kept those promises whenever I was at Winnetou’s side. Most certainly I kept them ever since we…,” Old Shatterhand swallowed. How was he supposed to explain to the maiden who had loved him once, and to whom he had not been completely averse that meanwhile he and her brother had joined in a physical relationship. Putting into words what his heart told him was right, but what was nevertheless considered a sin made him blush with shame and dried his mouth.

“Since you were not only devoted to each other in mind, soul and heart but also in body?” Nscho-Tschi bailed him out.

“Yes…,” confirmed Old Shatterhand feeling himself blush to the tips of his hair.

“You realize for yourself that you were only able to keep your promise within restrictions. But Nscho-tschi is not angry with you because she knows her brother is not angry either. He had always let you go because he wished to see you happy as he valued your happiness above his. And you also spoke the truth about what you and he have shared several moons since. More than ever before you have been the sun in my brother’s life, his mainstay, his heart’s and his soul’s home.” She closed with “But today you betrayed him, you left him, giving him a nearly fatal blow.”

“No, no!” Shatterhand objected. Disbelief, very near horror was in his voice. “Today I made the largest sacrifice out of my love for Winnetou. I gave my life to save his.”

It didn’t worry Old Shatterhand that his words did not really make any sense because no man would be able to argue with their own death as some sort of heroic deed. But nothing that happened at the moment could be grasped by one’s senses. And since the young Apache woman, who surely was herself an apparition, reasoned that Old Shatterhand’s suicide was treason, then she may not have completely grasped his reasons and he had to find clearer words.

“Does Old Shatterhand believe what he said? Do you really believe that it was an act of love when you condemned Winnetou to watch you die? Do you believe that his physical well-being is of any importance to my brother when the price for his life would have been your loss? Do you think that when you let go, he really would have turned around, had walked away to let you drown in the floods without having tried everything to save you?” Nscho-tschi had grown louder with each of her questions. Her eyes showed that bellicose twinkle Old Shatterhand had admired while she had still been alive. Finally, he grasped what she had tried to explain.

“Winnetou did not leave the lake?” Old Shatterhand asked. His heart hammered wildly and with fright.

“No, he did not.”

“But then it was all in vain.” Shatterhand moaned. “What happened? Where is my brother?”

“He is wherever you are.” This was the beautiful Apache woman’s vague reply.

A wave of desperation closed above Shatterhand, because had not Nscho-tschi confirmed in their conversation that he had drowned? Was not her presence proof of that? Had Winnetou also died? What on earth had he done? Why had he given up? Why could he have thought that his death would save his beloved brother? Why had he not fought more? Why had he not listened to Winnetou?

Desperate tears forced their way out, and Old Shatterhand was unable to stop them. They burned behind his eyelids and rolled down his feverish cheeks.

He wanted to turn away so as to hide them from Nscho-tschi, but the Apache maiden had already noticed them. While she brushed them away with a tender hand, the fire that had threatened from her features gave way to a soft, tender, almost supernatural glow that induced a feeling of warmth and comfort in Shatterhand’s chest. Her graceful features, so similar to Winnetou’s, cast an irresistible spell on Shatterhand which he seemed unable to escape.

“Old Shatterhand has seen the error of his ways” Nscho-tschi turned what might have been a question into a statement. “He realizes what he means to Winnetou and what huge mistake he has made. Will he ever again voluntarily leave my brother?”

A silent shake of his head was the only reply, followed by a few almost imperceptible words covered in tears. “Never again – but it is too late now.”

Again, Nscho-tschi’s tender hand caressed Shatterhand’s cheek. Then she spoke again. “Do not the Christians say that it is never too late to repent?”

Old Shatterhand wanted to reply, but all of a sudden he was unable to speak. As if from a distance he perceived Nscho-tschi leaning over him to kiss his forehead. Cold and darkness vanished. For a short period of time he gave in to them, closed his eyes only to open them again the next moment. He must not surrender, not again. This time he had to fight. He had to find Winnetou.

When he was able to see again clearly, he thought to drown in dark eyes that still rested on him. They held him captive, let him forget everything else except his dear blood brother. Nscho-tschi had mentioned that he was around? But where? Shatterhand had to know.

“Where is Winnetou?” He was again in command of his voice even though it still sounded rough and hoarse. His world still consisted of black velvety stars that shone on him. They slowly receded until they had vanished from his sight. In their stead was a tender hand and someone put a damp cool cloth on his brow. “My brother must not exert himself unnecessarily. Winnetou is at his side.”

Shatterhand had almost succumbed to the world of shadows from which he had woken, but those words called him back into the light with all their might. He had to see his brother. Now.

“Nscho-tschi must show him!” he demanded.

“Nscho-tschi?” The young Apache woman’s name was a faint echo in Shatterhand’s ear. “My brother may try to remember. Nscho-tschi has been gone for many winters.”

“But -?” Still disoriented, Shatterhand forced his weak limbs to obey him. He sat up and looked around him. He was in a cave. Opposite him a small fire burned and the sun shone outside. Blinded by the light Shatterhand noticed a second shape near him. It hastened to support him and thus advanced into the shade.

It was Winnetou.

“Winnetou –“ Shatterhand breathed this one word bevor he succumbed again to darkness.

 

+++

 

A whole night and half of the next day had passed since the Apache chieftain had pulled his blood brother from the icy waters. Winnetou had still been quite a distance away, when strength had left his friend, whose stiff fingers became unable to hold him and he had disappeared into the dark water.

In desperation Winnetou had thrown himself into the snow, had crawled in feverish haste to the rim and had finally jumped after his lover and into the water. Despite the cold that threatened to paralyze him with a thousand pinpricks and confuse his mind, he had dived down with determined strokes. After searching shortly he had been able to get a grip on Shatterhand’s arm and pull him again to the surface.

The Apache was unable to say where he had found the strength to break a path through the ice towards the shore for himself and his friend, carry his lover’s lifeless body up the slope, blow air into the lungs and compress his friend’s chest until the breathed-in water was coughed up. The good Manitou must have given him the necessary strength, just as He had guided a considerate warrior some time ago to leave an ample supply of firewood and several threadbare of dirty blankets in the cave into which Winnetou had dragged Sharlih.

With a final effort Winnetou had built a provisional camp for them from dry grass, leaves blown into the cave and those scraps of fabric. He had built up a large fire, taken off his own and Shatterhand’s wet clothes and had pulled his brother into his arms so that the flames could keep them both warm.

Hour after hour the Apache had held out, had put on more firewood and had waited until daybreak. Only then had he dared lay down Sharlih. He had got up, had dressed in parts of the clothes already dry and put some of them on his still unconscious friend. Then he went outside to have a look around. The horses still stood close to each other on the opposite shore. He had to fetch them because they carried blankets and provisions, his bag of medicinal herbs and other clothing. Their rifles were also still there in the snow.

He would have loved to wake Old Shatterhand to tell him that he would be away for some time, but his efforts were of no avail. But he must no longer hesitate. Winnetou realized that they were both feverish and that his coughs sounded worse. If he did not go now, he might become unable to reach the animals. So it was with a heavy heart that he left his brother to fetch the black and the Pinto.

When he returned in the early afternoon, the fire had died down but some of the sun rays still warmed the cave. In his half-sleep his friend murmured incomprehensibly while Winnetou prepared tea for both of them. He also put aside moist cloth with which he wanted to cool his blood brother’s forehead and calves. While he was still occupied, Sharlih started to move, had spoken in his sleep and had even shed tears. Quickly Winnetou had wiped them away. Seeing them burdened his heart. He had whispered a kiss to the brow and for a moment Sharlih had come to though his senses must still be confused because he had not called for Winnetou but for Nscho-tschi instead.

He had only been awake for a short period, so that Winnetou began to worry in earnest. Maybe there had been too much water in Old Shatterhand’s lungs? Had his mind suffered? The chieftain knew of one such incident where an Apache warrior had nearly drowned and his senses had not returned to him on waking. His soul still wandered in darkness.

A dull ache started to envelop Winnetou’s heart. What if he had saved Sharlih, only to lose him? Why had he not stopped his blood brother? Why had he not followed sooner? A bout of coughing racked the Apache, and he felt that fetching the horses had taken up more of his strength than he had wished to acknowledge. It would surely be the best if he drank some of the antifebrile tea he had already prepared. Then he ought to lie down next to Sharlih. His lover’s proximity would calm his wildly flailing and anxious soul. His body also demanded rest after having stayed up all night.

Almost mechanically Winnetou drank of the hot brew and fetched all their blankets. He bid Iltschi and Hatatitla watch out and finally buried himself and his blood brother under everything helping to keep them warm. Then he laid his left hand on Sharlihs heart so that its even and calming beat carried him away into Morpheus’ arms.

While Winnetou succumbed fast to sleep due to the past events, he hardly found any rest. Fever grabbed at him again, and he dreamed of dark ice giants that had taken away Old Shatterhand. They froze him to his core. He saw menacing gurgling maws of green water and Sharlih’s blue eyes that looked at him from a dead man’s face.

Winnetou realized that it was not only his mind that reacted to those weird dreams, but his body as well. He had begun to shiver and moan in pain. Nevertheless fever kept him a prisoner to those hallucinations and tormented him without granting the relief of either waking or falling into a deep and restful sleep.

The chieftain was unable to say how long he remained in this condition. Time and space, reality and delusion, hope and fear became hazy in the darkness of a shoreless ocean. Its waves buffeted Winnetou’s Soul.

Finally, the roaring ocean seemed to calm down and from a distance a bright light promised the morning. Despite flagging strength the Apache moved towards it, and he realized that the light emitted from a person sitting by the shore. Winnetou extended a hand and the moment he touched his fingers to them, he recognized his sister’s features.

“Nscho-tschi…” He breathed.

“My brother,” was her simple reply.

“How is it possible that I am able to see my good sister here?”

Without replying to Winnetou’s question, the young woman drew the chieftain close, raised him from the waters with unnatural strength, breathed a kiss to his brow just as she had done previously to Old Shatterhand and commanded him to “Wake up!”

Winnetou woke up immediately. He opened his eyes to look straight into his blood brother’s worried-looking face. Shatterhand leaned over him, holding his hand. Obviously he had tried to wake the Apache for some time.

When their eyes met, part of the strain left Old Shatterhand’s features. “Winnetou! Finally! I have tried to rouse you for the past half hour but to no avail. Are you well?”

“Sharlih, my brother! You are awake. How do you feel?”

For a moment the friends looked at each other expectantly before they realized that they had not answered each other’s question out of worry for each other. They might still feel weak and ill, but their realisation made them smile involuntarily. Then Winnetou explained seriously. “This time we barely made it, my brother. Icy waters nearly succeeded where a thousand enemies would have failed. But Manitou guarded us.”

“That is true,” Old Shatterhand confirmed. “Will Winnetou be able to forgive me?”

Instead of a reply, the Apache straightened, framed his friend’s cheek with his hand and closed their lips with a kiss that made all words unnecessary. And while Old Shatterhand’s gaze fell into Winnetou’ dark eyes, he silently repeated the promise he had made to Nscho-tschi in his delirium. “Never again will I leave Winnetou’s side voluntarily.”

 

 

 

_[1]_ _"He is up and about!"_


End file.
